


Sign of Strength

by ReaperRain



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputation, Angst, Disabled Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Disability, Romance, Scars, Slash, Slavery, Tevinter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:37:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperRain/pseuds/ReaperRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original k!meme prompt: Fenris in some attack against Danarius or during a little 'friendly' tournament between magisters, is crippled in some way, leaving Danarius has no choice but to sell him on. Luckily, Magister Bethany snatches him up to give to her older brother as a present. Slave sexy times and taking care of a now scared and injured Fenris ensue (the trauma of the crippling injury needs care! And Hawke is up for it!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sign of Strength

**SIGN OF STRENGTH**

-

“What do you mean, 'can't'?”

“I am truly sorry Magister, but I've done all I can. The bleeding is stemmed, his condition is stable-”

“This? _This_ is what you can do?” Danarius gestured furiously at his slave, who flinched and bowed lower to the ground, supported on one arm. “I thought you were the best healer in Minrathous!”

The best healer in Minrathous frowned, annoyance creeping into his tone, “I'm not a miracle worker. Mending wounds is one thing, but re-growing limbs is beyond the ability of any mage.”

“Do you have any idea what this slave is worth? The lyrium, the swordsmanship, the obedience... years of personal investment all wasted because you can't do your job properly!”

The other mage glowered, “It begs the question why you would risk something so priceless in a tournament. There is little more I can do for you, so if you'll excuse me, I have other patients to attend.”

Danarius visibly seethed, but knew the argument was lost. “Fenris!” he snapped, “Get up. We're done here.”

Fenris rose from the kneeling position with difficulty. He was still dizzy from blood loss, still disorientated from what had just happened. It still felt like there was a limb there right down to the flexing of his fingers, and yet there was nothing to show but a scarred, empty shoulder socket. And while he'd never noticed the weight of his right arm before, in its absence the imbalance very nearly toppled him over. He stumbled and lurched gracelessly behind the robe-tails of his master, who neither looked back nor offered help, even as he almost fell climbing into Danarius' personal carriage.

“Useless,” the mage spoke as soon as they were inside, out of earshot and heading back to the mansion. “I spend a fortune in lyrium and blood, and you get your arm torn off. By a _Qunari,_ no less.”

Fenris swallowed, bowing his head, “I'm sorry, Master.”

“You realise what this means, of course.” Bony fingers rapped vehemently against the frame of the carriage, “You can't lift your weapon, you can't protect _yourself,_ never mind me. There's no use for a one-armed bodyguard.”

A cold dread crept up his spine. Danarius was not a kind master, but he was all Fenris had ever known. And he was still better than the fate of all broken slaves, to work in hard labour until death by exhaustion.

His throat tightened. “Master – I can still attend to you-”

He was cut off, “You've brought me enough disgrace. I'll already have to put up with snide comments for months, I don't need my guests sniggering when they see you pour wine with one hand. _Useless._ ”

In a bid to prove his worth, however diminished, Fenris exited first and held out a hand for his master, as he usually did. Or tried to anyway; by the time he clumsily manoeuvred out of the carriage and braced open the door with his now empty shoulder, Danarius was already disembarking. He breezed past without another word and, as if things weren't bad enough, was met half way to the house by a harried Hadriana.

“Magister, a messenger just came by and said-” she caught sight of Fenris, her usually-slitted blue eyes widened in rare shock, “It's true, then?”

“Unfortunately,” Danarius' voice was cold and suitably his next words made Fenris' blood freeze. “Have him stripped and taken to the laboratory. If he can't fight there's no sense in him keeping the lyrium, and I might as well recoup _some_ of my losses.”

His markings, gone? He hated them, but they were part of his skin, Danarius couldn't simply wipe them away. He only vaguely remembered the marking ritual – the agony had washed away the details, along with his memory of a life before – but he could never forget how it felt. Even as his obedience fought against it, he couldn't suppress a plea for mercy: “Please, Master-”

“Silence,” Danarius snapped, the sound like a whip-crack and every bit as effective, “You have no say in the matter.”

“You're taking it out?” If anything brightened Hadriana's mood, it was watching someone else suffer. Sure enough, she had that sharp little glint to her expression, “Do you need any help with that, Magister?”

He waved a hand carelessly, “You can hold him down, I suppose.”

Her lips stretched into a sweet smile, but with no genuine warmth. The kind a viper might give its next meal. “It would be my pleasure.”

-

“So what will you do with him?” 

It was the first time he was able to hear Hadriana's voice clearly, not drowned out by the white noise buzzing inside his skull. She wasn't holding him down any more, but she didn't need to, even twitching his fingers sent a lashing of agony through his every nerve. How long had he been here like this? It felt like at least a day.

“Sell him on as labour or fodder. There's a man coming by in the afternoon. Though I'll be lucky if I can get a few coins for him now.”

Hadriana leaned in close and traced along his neck, dark gouges where lyrium had once been. No longer bleeding, but he could acutely feel the sharpness of her fingernails, “Seems a waste of his looks.”

A snort, “I don't think there's much market for scarred one-armed bed slaves. And I can't stud him, there's no telling how the lyrium affected his virility.”

“I could take him off your hands,” her eyes glittered in the light, “I'm sure I could find a use for him.”

“Let's see what the resale value is first-” a knock at the door interrupted him, “ _What?_ I specifically said I wasn't to be disturbed!”

“Utmost apologies, Master, but there's a visitor in the hall. Here about your, ah, ex bodyguard.”

“What, already? No matter. Fenris, to your feet.”

The blind instinct to obey overrode the pain and he hauled himself upright, swallowing back any screams. But his ruined legs refused to support him; he pitched forwards, reached out to grab onto something with an arm that was no longer there, and thus crumpled to the floor.

There was an annoyed sigh, “Hadriana, get him dressed and to the hall. If the slaver offers pittance, you can have him instead.”

A rough-spun tunic was forced over his head, custom armour long since taken away for some more valuable slave to wear. She didn't help carry him, but dragged him upright and out of the door, wounds bleeding anew at the forcefulness. It occurred to him, with a dawning cold nausea, that she was aggravating them to lower his value even further.

“I doubt you're worth much anyway,” she purred in his ear, hand clenched tightly at the back of his neck as she pushed him forwards, “But I'm sure I can match whatever the man offers. Then you'll be _my_ slave.”

His insides twisted at the thought. Surely anything would be better that that, even death. Danarius could be cruel, but eventually he lost interest and gave Fenris some respite. Hadriana derived endless entertainment from making him miserable.

“You're early- oh,” Danarius paused at the stairway, and the sight of his unexpected guest waiting below in the entrance hall. “Magister... Bethany Hawke, was it? This is certainly a surprise.”

“Magister Danarius.” The woman – still youthful enough to be called a girl, really – inclined her head respectfully. Fenris dimly recognised her, he'd seen her once or twice at public events, overheard a little of her family. From Ferelden, or so her pale skin indicated, ill-suited to the Tevinter sun. The same for the guard stood by her, whose sleeveless shoulders were faintly sunburned. “I'm here to inquire about your slave, the warrior from the tournament yesterday.”

“ _Former_ warrior. He's not much good anymore,” Danarius clucked his tongue distastefully, but pulled Fenris forward, into view, “And he's right here. Inquire away.”

The girl gave him a quick once-over. As did her bodyguard, who looked surprised, even shocked at the fresh scars in Fenris' skin. Strange behaviour for a slave. That aside, those were not the shrewd, calculated looks a potential buyer gave potential property, and yet magister Bethany's next words were: “How much?”

“Excuse me?” Danarius arched a brow, “You want to buy him? Whatever for?”

“As a gift for a friend.”

Danarius laughed, though there was little mirth in it. “You must not think highly of them. Gifting a slave this ruined might be taken as an insult.”

“I should like to gift him regardless,” her tone remained polite but distinctly business-like. “Now, how much will he cost?”

Behind Fenris, Hadriana bristled, “Master, I am sure I can offer more-”

“One thousand,” magister Bethany interrupted calmly.

He startled at that, and again at the nerve-jolt the motion caused. Hadriana made a strangled sound and even Danarius looked taken back: “ _How_ much?”

“One thousand. I can't imagine the labour slavers would pay more than that.”

The labour slavers wouldn't have paid ten coins, never mind a thousand. Danarius knew it too, but of course his greed always demanded more: “Perhaps, but with the time and money invested I'd say he's worth ten times that. I could let him go for, say... five thousand?”

“The majority of that was spent on lyrium, which I see you've removed,” Bethany pointed out patiently, “Not to mention he's missing an arm. One thousand.”

He had the impression Bethany was quite a bit less naïve than she looked. Even if she was paying well over the odds.

His master sighed, but conceded, “Fine. You have a contract drawn up, I assume?”

While paperwork was exchanged, Hadriana just about shoved him down the steps to the hall. He could feel her fury, but there was nothing she could do, she didn't have that kind of wealth to throw around. It was almost enough to make him smile. 

“He's all yours,” the contract was signed, coin was exchanged, “Or rather, whomever you plan on giving him to. I hope they're satisfied... or highly insulted, if that's your intention.”

And just like that, he belonged to another person. Years of servitude, of being his master's most prized and coveted possession, and within the space of a day his arm was gone, his lyrium was gone, and now the only life he'd ever known was gone. He'd escaped Hadriana's clutches, at least, but there was no telling what his new master would be like. He'd heard magister Bethany was compassionate – magocracy codename for 'weak' – but he wouldn't even be serving her. Surely, though, it couldn't be worse than the alternatives, and so he followed magister Bethany and her guard without protest to the waiting carriage outside. 

Once within, the bodyguard spoke: “Maker's arse.”

Bethany nudged him with her elbow, her curt, formal air abruptly dropped, “Language, Carver.”

“Well what else am I supposed to say?” he gestured at Fenris, “What did he remove those marking things with, a chisel?” It sounded like a rhetorical question, so Fenris stayed quiet, pointedly avoiding eye contact as Bethany looked him over.

“I don't want to try any major healing in a bumpy carriage, but... I can at least cast something for the pain. Will you let me do that?”

She was talking to him, Fenris realised. Though who knew why she was asking, it wasn't like he could refuse her. Wordlessly he nodded, eyes still trained on the floor.

Danarius knew a little healing magic, used to clean up any scars or other imperfections in his prized pet. But he never took away the pain, if anything the brute force of mending skin hurt more than the actual injury. He expected similar when Bethany scanned him with faintly glowing hands, but surprisingly felt only a mild tingling sensation, and the ache of his fresh wounds lessened a little. The disbelief must have showed as he looked up at her, because she gave him a smile that was equal parts reassuring and saddened.

“Better?” she asked. Again, he nodded.

The bodyguard gave him a critical look, “Can you talk? Did the old bastard cut out your tongue as well?”

He didn't think he'd ever heard anyone call Danarius a bastard before. Even when out of earshot, people feared the magister too much to speak ill of him. “I can still talk-” he glanced at Bethany, assuming her to be in charge here, “-Mistress.”

“Oh, don't bother with that. You can call me Bethany. And this is my brother, Carver.” A sibling, not a slave. That explained the informality, though in Tevinter even kin had to pay respect to a magister. Ferelden behaviour then, Danarius had always spoken of the country as backwards and barbaric.

“You are... not to be my Mistress?” he asked carefully. He wanted to know about the 'gifting' mentioned earlier, but slaves did not question their master's intent.

“You're going to live with our older brother, Harlan. Or just 'Hawke', as most people call him. He's an admirer of yours.”

 _Admirer._ Maybe it was meant to be a good thing, but Fenris didn't have such associations with the word. Danarius admired his markings, and was inclined to let others admire them as well, with eyes and hands and often more. He'd heard little of the Hawke eldest save that he wasn't a magister – which disqualified him from Danarius' guest list – but that didn't mean he was less slimy than the others. So he would not be going to a kinder master after all.

The Hawke estate was reasonably sized, but nowhere near as grandiose as Danarius' residence; the family were relatively new to Minrathous, and while quite wealthy they lacked the lavish expenditures of the neighbouring mages. _Very Ferelden_ , as Danarius had dryly put it. The carriage neared the great house at the centre of the land, but then turned off down another path, past lush gardens and vineyards.

“Harlan has his own section of the estate,” Bethany explained, “If he and Carver shared the same space for more than ten minutes a fight would break out.”

Carver folded his arms, grumbling, “He starts it. And what does he get? His own property.”

“Our house is bigger than his. You've no basis to be jealous.”

“I'm not _jealous-_ ”

This light bickering went on from leaving the halted carriage to entering the private villa, with Fenris in tow. It had its own kind of opulence, none of the fussy ornamentation Danarius preferred, but hanging plants and smooth marble floors, cool beneath his feet.

“I'm just saying that technically it's not _our_ house, it's _your_ house, and Harlan doesn't have to put up with being mistaken for a slave all the time-”

“I can hear Carver being annoying,” a drawling, unfamiliar voice floated through to the hall from one of the other rooms, “Is there a reason you're here unannounced, disturbing my very important nap?”

“You're as bearable as ever,” Carver called back sourly, “And get in here, you ass. We have a present.”

The tone morphed into interest, “Present? I like presents. Give me a minute.” There was rustling, the approaching _pat pat_ of bare feet against tiled floor. And from a doorway approached Harlan Hawke.

He was, for a start, much younger than Fenris had expected, only a few years senior to his two siblings. The same dark hair, but skin that had adapted better to the hot climate. In one ear was a series of gold hoops, glinting in the light. Beyond that, he was wearing nothing but a thin summer robe, loosely belted at the waist.

Carver made a disdainful sound, “You could've put some clothes on.”

Harlan shrugged unapologetically, “You caught me unawares. Present?”

“You might recognise him,” Bethany stepped aside, unobstructing the view.

He looked up long enough to see the shock on Hawke's face, before remembering himself and dropping his gaze again. Oh, that wasn't a good sign.

“...Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Danarius was going to sell him into hard labour, so I got there first. Sadly he'd already removed the lyrium and, well, he wasn't exactly careful. But I can heal most of the scars, over time.”

He didn't look up, but he could feel the piercing stare, and tried not to cringe under it, “How much did he cost?”

“Harlan! You're not supposed to ask that about gifts,” she swatted him, but her tone soon turned curious, “So... what do you think?”

Honestly, Fenris didn't know. Harlan's words could have easily have been taken as disdainful; after all, who would be happy receiving a mutilated slave? Danarius was right, he was intended as a personal snub, he shouldn't have expected otherwise-

“He's _beautiful._ ”

He glanced up before he could stop himself. The healing by Bethany had brought his guard down, that sort of basic mistake would earn a beating from any master. But he found Hawke looking at him transfixed, eyes alight with genuine awe.

“I knew you'd like him,” and then she added slyly, “Besides he'll keep you from getting lazy.”

He pursed his lips, “I'm not lazy.”

“Mm. Next time you have visitors, Harlan, at least put on some pants.”

“Pants are highly overrated.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, “Thank you.”

Interrupting this display of sibling affection so rarely found in Tevinter, Carver cleared his throat theatrically. “Can we go now?”

Bethany stepped back from the embrace, handing the papers of ownership over to her elder brother. “Full rights. I'll be back later on to start healing him when he's settled in. Best to take these things slowly.”

When she and Carver were gone, Harlan – Master – at last turned to address his new slave, glancing up and down the scarred, amputated frame with what could only be described as pride. He positively beamed as he spoke: “Hello Fenris.”

Harlan was an _admirer,_ of course he already knew Fenris' name. It was still somewhat unsettling. But he tried to cover any nerves, giving a slight bow, “Hello, Master.”

“Hmm? Say that again, would you?”

He toed the ground anxiously, “...Hello Master?”

“ _Master._ I could get used to hearing that,” the man smiled fondly to himself, “Out of interest, how much _did_ Bethany pay for you? Be honest.”

Hawke was his owner now, and so he had to reply: “One thousand, Master.”

There was a low whistle, “That's all? I thought Danarius would never part with you, especially not for so little.”

His reasons for being sold on were glaringly obvious, to say the least. Was it supposed to be a taunt? Harlan didn't seem the type, but often people pleasant on the surface made for the cruellest handlers. “I am... no longer a valuable asset.”

“Nonsense. A little worse for wear-” that had to be the biggest understatement Fenris had ever heard, “-But nothing that a bit of care can't fix. Also, new clothes,” he plucked at the ratty tunic, distaste evident. “Pity that lovely armour didn't come included, but I'll have something else made. All in all though, I'd say you were a steal.”

He had poor value judgement then, Fenris privately thought. Maybe he was still unused to Imperium currency. Or partially sighted, or hopelessly rose-tinted, there had to be some reason why he'd glossed over Fenris' state.

All in all, he was utterly bewildered. And did Hawke just call his old armour 'lovely'?

-

“And through here is the kitchen, over there is the pantry, and down those steps is the wine cellar. Got all that?”

The tour had been brisk, and truthfully he was still reeling from the notion of now calling this home, it was all so abrupt. But he would have time later to settle into his surroundings later, and there was far less to memorise here than in Danarius' enormous manor, “Yes Master.”

“Good! Any questions?”

As a slave his job was not to ask, but be told. But Harlan hadn't specified what Fenris was actually supposed to _do._ He couldn't be a bodyguard any more, and they'd passed the serving quarters, housing the slaves who already did all the cleaning, restocking and general menial work. “Actually, Master... I am unsure what my duties are.”

“Duties? I guess you'll do as I do, although really...” he scratched his ear sheepishly, the line of rings going _clink clink clink._ “I'm no magister, so I'm not involved in Tevinter politics. I oversee the vineyards and sometimes accompany Bethany out, but mostly Carver guards her. That leaves me with a pretty clear schedule. Lazing, lounging, maybe some languishing...” he shrugged. “You needn't worry about chores. For now just concentrate on your rehabilitation.”

He frowned, “Rehabilitation...?”

“You know, getting back on your feet, so you can fight again.”

He was, by this point, starting to wonder if Hawke had actually noticed the missing arm. “With all due respect, I don't think that's possible,” he said carefully.

Hawke frowned, “Why not?”

Maybe he really _hadn't_ noticed. “My injury, Master.”

“Oh, that.” Harlan waved a dismissive hand, as though it posed no more trouble than a paper cut, “You can switch to a short sword and work your way back up, I'll teach you some basic exercises.” Evidently Fenris' reaction wasn't as well-disguised as he'd thought, because he then added: “I've seen you fight in the tournaments. Your strength, your resolve. I've no doubt that you will adapt to your circumstances.”

Fenris doubted he would be able to wield a claymore with one arm. In fact since the markings had enhanced his strength, chances were he wouldn't even be able to lift it. He opened his mouth to point this out-

“Who is your master?”

-And snapped it shut again, “You.”

“Which means you don't question my word. And I'm telling you, you _will_ fight again.”

He swallowed, but bowed his head, “Yes, Master.”

The next few hours were spent touring the vineyards and being told a little of the Hawke history. Which was... odd. Not the sort of thing you told a slave. He knew nothing of Danarius' lineage or how he'd come to be a magister. But not a day after his first contact with the family he already knew that father Malcolm had won the title, then passed it and the estate along to Bethany with his untimely death. It figured; Bethany seemed too gentle to duel another magister for their property, or sabotage her way to the top as young mages often did.

On the subject, she later stopped by to start healing Fenris' wounds, this time without Carver in tow.

“He wanted to tag along and be nosy,” she told Harlan as she set everything up in the lounge – lyrium potions, healing salve and a few other basic medical supplies, “But I told him it'd involve Fenris stripping off and suddenly he had a prior engagement.” She cast Fenris an apologetic smile, “You will need to undress, so I can see all the scars.”

Danarius had paraded him around nude plenty of times before, but the prying eyes of others still left him uncomfortable. With the ruined markings it would now be with revulsion rather than greedy lust, though he couldn't call either a better choice. He did not, when he pulled off his tunic, get revulsion, though there was quite a bit of shock.

“He put lyrium _down there?_ ” Harlan gaped.

He resisted the strong and shameful urge to cover himself. “It was Ma- Danarius' way of marking me. To prove that I belonged to him, entirely.”

“Oh dear,” Bethany cast him a pitying look, “I'll heal what I can but there will still be marks, you understand.”

He gave a stiff bow, “I would not have expected healing at all, Mistress.”

“Let's see the shoulder,” Harlan moved around to inspect his right side, just as the faint tingle of Bethany's magic started trickling into his skin. “It's...empty. Huh. I thought there'd be a stump.”

“It was torn off, not cut off,” Fenris reported, voice low. “My opponent dislocated my shoulder first. And then just... pulled it out, as it were.”

Hawke visibly winced, “Ouch. Brutal, those Qunari.”

Ordinarily, he would stay quiet. Danarius, like most, had a 'speak when spoken to' policy, a slave was meant to shut up and agree with whatever their master said. But Harlan seemed less strict and Bethany was here, so... “He was Tal-Vashoth, Master.”

“I thought Qunari were the big horned ones?”

“They are of the same species, but Qunari follow their own religion, the Qun. Tal-Vashoth defy it.”

“How could you tell the difference?”

He gave a grim smile, “A Qunari would have turned his blade on himself, rather than fight for a magisters entertainment.”

If either of them picked up on the bitterness in those last words, they didn't comment on it. Hawke instead said: “You seem familiar with them. Have you come across them before?”

“I... believe so.” He had been told of the Tal-Vashoth, but it had all been familiar, like the knowledge was already there. “I am originally from Seheron, or so Danarius said.” At their confused looks, he added: “I remember nothing prior to receiving the lyrium markings.”

“What... nothing at all?”

“Basic motor skills. But no memories of family, or how I came to be in Minrathous, or-” _a slave._ He bit his lip down on the words. Slaves did not question or wonder at impossibilities.

The healing was a long, drawn-out process, though he was at least permitted to sit down. His wounds were still hypersensitive, the tiniest fragments of leftover lyrium reacting to any magic. Unwilling to aggravate anything, Bethany fixed what she could, downing all of her lyrium potions in the process. For the most part, Harlan watched in silence, occasionally handing over salve or cleaning solution. But Fenris could feel the man's gaze upon him, his scars. Perhaps he had now realised the extent of the damages, and regretted accepting Fenris as a gift, there could be no other reason to stare so intently. He didn't dare look up to read Hawke's facial expression, he had already made too many amateur mistakes today.

It was well into the night when Bethany came to a halt. The warmth of the day had faded, and his bare skin prickled at a passing draught, but he felt considerably better than before. The scars along his back did not pull quite so taut as he bowed lowly to her.

“No need,” she told him kindly. “I'll be back next week, best to do this gradually. In the meantime, use the salve after bathing, or whenever it hurts. Harlan, a word in private?”

The two of them left him in the lounge. And he knew he should've stayed there, that he was not to disobey, but he couldn't help inching closer to the doorway to overhear:

“Is that you _encouraging_ me to be hands-on, Bethany?”

“I just...” there was a sigh, “I get the impression he's used to being in pain, so he might be inclined to ignore it. Any time you see him moving awkwardly-”

“-Tackle him to the ground and slather salve all over him?”

“Maybe less tackling, But yes.”

“I shall consider it my solemn duty.” Then his tone really _did_ turn solemn, “How long do you think he would've lasted as a labour slave?”

“Without proper healing? A few weeks, maybe. But...” a pause, almost hesitant, “Danarius' apprentice was there – Hadriana, remember her? She wasn't too happy about letting Fenris go. I think she wanted him for herself.”

“How long would he have lasted with _her?_ ”

“Until she got bored.” Fenris swallowed at that. So close to becoming Hadriana's toy, so close. “Keep an eye out for her. And Danarius too, at that.”

“Don't worry, I'll keep him safe.”

Fenris could hear the smile in her voice, “I know.”

He hurried back to the couch when he heard Bethany say her goodbyes, and did his best to appear as though he'd been there all along. Enough to fool Harlan, who walked back in none the wiser.

“Right! I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Time to eat. Ah ah-” Fenris, who'd been mid way to putting on his tunic, froze in place. “Forget that old thing. I'll find something else for you tomorrow.”

There was no other clothing in sight, so Harlan wanted him to just... walk naked through the house? He'd been nude before at Danarius' behest, but that didn't mean he was comfortable with it. He already felt exposed without his usual spikes and armour, but with nothing at all...

Hawke noticed his hesitance, “What? You want something else to put on?”

He ducked his head. He was being fussy, what he wore was not his decision. And while he was still unsure and suspicious of Harlan's relaxed attitude, convinced that there would be some catch to all this... he knew it could not possibly be worse than what might have been. He didn't want to ruin his chances here by appearing difficult and disobedient.

He kept his voice low, subservient: “If Master wishes me to wear nothing, I shall.”

Harlan raised an eyebrow. And then unfastened his house robe.

He wasn't sure what to make of it, flinching when Harlan stepped forwards – but received only the featherweight of the silken garment settling around his shoulders.

“Might be a little big, but...” Hawke tied the belt around Fenris' narrow waist then stepped back to admire his handiwork, “Hmm, not bad. I could stand to see you in my clothes more often.”

He was left blinking in bewilderment as Hawke, now stark naked, strolled towards the kitchen without a hint of embarrassment. As Fenris stood rooted to the spot out of shock, not quite able to believe his Master had literally given him the clothes off his back, Harlan cast him an expectant glance.

“Come on then. I haven't got all night.”

The authority snapped the sense back into him and he hurried after him, the too-long robe tickling at his ankles. His arm manoeuvred inside one of the wide sleeves, the other hanging emptily by his side. But even on his misshapen frame it draped gracefully, a sign of skilled – therefore expensive – tailoring. And Harlan had just... given it to him.

It must've been a Ferelden thing. Certainly no Imperial citizen, magister or no, would share his possessions so freely. _Backwards and barbaric,_ Danarius had called Ferelden. He'd always taken his former master's word as the absolute truth, but for the first time, he was starting to question it.

It was apparently also a Ferelden trait to fetch food yourself rather than calling for a slave. Harlan bustled around the empty kitchen himself, procuring some manner of Orlesian pastry.

“It's too late to bother with a big meal, so this will have to do. Here-” he handed one over to Fenris, who looked at it quizzically. “What? Haven't you seen one of those before?”

“Yes, but...” he held it unsurely, expecting some manner of trick, “You wish me to eat this?”

“You don't like pastry?”

“No, I meant – this sort of food is not usually given to a slave, unless it is a leftover.”

“It _is_ a leftover, from today's breakfast,” he promptly took a bite of his own, “Shtill delishoush. Try it.”

He had a cautious nibble. Admittedly it was good, Harlan must've employed a talented chef, unusual for a residence this small. Although the man's fondness for luxury was apparent, which only made Fenris even more confused as to why he was here. While he might've once been considered a valuable slave, he certainly wasn't anymore.

He followed Hawke as he went outside, arms laden with pastries, still naked. There was no-one about at this hour, but he had the impression it wouldn't have mattered to Hawke either way. He was trying not to stare, but he couldn't help noticing that his master was evenly coloured all over, no tan lines... which meant he sunbathed nude. Not something a magister would do, but as he was quickly learning, Harlan was not a magister and had no aspirations of behaving like one.

Perhaps life would not be so bad after all.

-

At such short notice there were no sleeping arrangements, and so Harlan directed him to a plush couch for the night before retreating to his quarters. When all fell silent and he was sure his Master was asleep, Fenris slipped off the couch, instead curling up on the bare floor next to it. He'd slept as such in Danarius' bedroom, by the door or at the foot of his bed as befitting a guard dog. And though he was no longer capable of guarding anyone, he felt more at ease down here.

He awoke to Hawke standing over him.

“Good morning!” Fenris briefly wondered how the man could be so chipper at this time, until he realised precisely what time it was. “Or good afternoon, rather.”

He had... slept in? It felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him, Slaves never slept in, they had to be up long before their master to attend to them. Laziness was the surest way to earn the whip. Immediately he blurted out an apology: “I'm sorry Master, it won't happen again.”

“Truly? How disappointing. I liked watching you sleep,” a smile curled at the corner of Harlan's mouth, “Not often I get the opportunity. It takes serious dedication to sleep in later than I do.”

He wasn't sure what to make of those comments. They sounded almost... flirtatious? “I-”

“Don't worry about it,” he was waved off. “After everything that happened yesterday, you're more than entitled to a lie-in. And I can't exactly criticise without being a hypocrite.”

That didn't stop most magisters from doing it, but Fenris didn't say that out loud. He also opted to just nod when Hawke asked if he'd fallen from the couch during the night, better than risking any insult to the man's hospitality.

Speaking of which, “Croissant?”

He took it. It was dusted in sugar powder, and someone had piped a chocolate smiley face on the top. It couldn't have been leftovers, it was still warm from the oven. But if Hawke wanted him to eat fresh pastry, he certainly wasn't complaining. He bit into it. “Thank you, Master. Your chef is very good.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Hawke beamed, “Eat up now. The tailor will be here soon.”

Already? For a man who confessed to being lazy, Hawke acted fast. Evidently his slave's aesthetic was high on his list of priorities.

Fenris had been fitted by a professional tailor before, for his custom armour, so he knew what to expect. But that had been many years ago, and the tailor had looked at him appreciatively like the trophy he was. Now he was greeted with surprise at the sight of a slave wearing his Master's robes, and outright shock when the robes came off, revealing the battered frame beneath.

He should have expected no less. He'd always thought his markings were ugly, but the scars they'd left behind were even uglier. And the arm... he kept forgetting about the arm, because truthfully it felt as though it was still there; it was only when the tailor measured across his mismatched shoulders that he remembered, almost flinching away.

She was studiously avoiding any contact with the injury. He could read the revulsion in her movements, even if her face was carefully blank. But what else could he expect? There was no place for disfigured slaves in the Imperium, its citizens only liked beautiful things. That he had a kind – if eccentric – master didn't change what everyone else thought.

“Hold on, Fenris. You need to stand up straighter,” A broad warm hand on his lower back corrected his slouch. The other nudged his shoulders back – by handling the empty socket, no scruples as he contacted the crumpled scar tissue. It wasn't particularly sensitive anymore, but no-one had touched him there since the healer, even Bethany had carefully avoided it. The gesture was oddly intimate.

“Much better,” Hawke said, his voice as warm as his hands, which lingered a second or two before he turned to face the tailor, “Wouldn't you agree?”

“It's... an improvement,” though her tone suggested this was a fruitless effort. 

He didn't realise he'd sunk back into his slouch until Harlan surreptitiously corrected him again. The pleasant smile never left his face, but when he spoke his enunciation was just a tad sharper: “A _vast_ improvement. He looks lovely. Doesn't he look _lovely._ ”

It was subtle, but the inflection posed a statement rather than a question. It suggested that this was not up for debate, and it was in her best interests to readily agree with every word. Since even the proudest merchant cringed at the thought of losing business the tailor answered, however stiffly: “Lovely. Yes, of course.”

-

When the tailor had finished Harlan saw her to the door – with the express purpose of having Words, Fenris suspected. He was left in the lounge, again wrapped up in the silk robe, now considerably more aware of the empty sleeve draped at his side.

He'd lost the arm only two days ago. Between the abrupt change of home and lifestyle, he hadn't really given it much thought. He didn't _want_ to, it was easier to pretend everything was normal, but that attitude only worked for so long.

His hand tentatively slid inside the sleeve, up to the shoulder socket he'd left alone until now. It felt as hideous as it looked and he recoiled immediately, but forced himself to continue. He could just about feel his fingers, but since most of the nerves were deadened it was more like touching something foreign. He was, in a sense.

“Fenris?”

He snatched his hand away, but from the way Harlan leaned against the door frame, he'd been watching a while. There was a pause

“I'm sorry about that,” Harlan said at last, advancing into the room, “She's a fine tailor, but used to dealing with nobility. She's picked up some of their bad habits.”

Fenris kept his eyes trained on the ground, “It is fine.”

“It's not, though.” Harlan sighed. “You shouldn't dwell on it. People like that aren't worth listening to.”

Much as he feared the repercussions, he couldn't just nod and agree. “With all due respect, Master, most Imperials citizens would be offended at the sight of a disfigured slave.”

“I'd hardly call you disfigured.”

Fenris would have called himself the very meaning of the word, but decided not to dispute. “Regardless, her views represent the majority of people.”

“The majority of people should be ignored, then,” Harlan snorted, but then his tone softened, “You are not any less of a person, Fenris. Don't let anyone tell you differently”

Fenris lowly chorused the words drilled into his head since he first woke from the lyrium ritual. “I am not a person at all. I am – I was a weapon created by Danarius,” he glanced at his scars and swallowed harshly, “Now I'm not even that.”

“You truly believe that?” Harlan's mouth was set in a grim line, a jarring expression on someone normally so cheerful, “You don't belong to Danarius any more. Who do you belong to now?”

He flinched, wondering if he had caused offence or belittled his master's authority. Why did he give voice to his thoughts? Slaves were to keep their views to themselves, stupid, _stupid._ “Y-you, Master.”

“So the only person whose opinion matters is...?”

“Yours.”

To his relief the stern look disappeared, and was replaced by the signature grin, “Exactly. And I say you are just fine as you are. Better than fine, in fact,” he cast Fenris an approving gaze that chased away the anxiety and left him feeling flustered. “So that's what you'll believe.”

Did... did Hawke look at everyone like that? He seemed the type of person to whom flirting came naturally, so there was probably no meaning behind it. But it was so convincing, Fenris could almost believe he warranted it. Almost. “Yes, Master.”

“Are you agreeing with my words or just acknowledging them?” Harlan shook his head at Fenris' fidgeting silence, “I suppose it doesn't matter. More fun persuading you anyway.”

 _Persuading._ The word had odd connotations for Fenris. When Danarius had ordered him to persuade someone it usually involved phasing his hand through their chest. But from Hawke it sounded practically suggestive.

And not wholly unpleasant.

-

As Fenris found out in the following week, Harlan had all the wealth and privilege of a magister with none of the responsibility. Danarius hadn't been a whirlwind of activity, but there had been social functions to attend, investments to secure, people to... persuade. Whereas Hawke's schedule involved, as he had said, lazing, lounging and languishing.

And cooking.

Fenris all but gaped when he found out, “ _You're_ the chef?”

Hawke raised an eyebrow, “You only just realised?”

In retrospect, it was obvious. He'd seen slaves in the kitchens, though only ever stocking the cupboards. And Harlan disappeared and re-emerged around mealtimes. But he'd assumed he was fetching the food, not making it.

“It is – unusual for someone of your station. Nobles like others to do their cooking.”

“But then you have to acquire assistants and servers and poison tasters and really, it's just easier to do it yourself,” Harlan told him, “Besides, I'm good at it.”

He was, Fenris remembered all those pastries. He could've sworn they'd come from an Orlesian gourmet. Maybe not the chocolate smiles decorating them – come to think of it, that was distinctly Harlan – but the taste was unrivalled. And, when the man pulled out ingredients and apparatus to lay organised on the table, Fenris could see that he was in his element.

“I prefer lighter meals, but it's good to have something substantial every few days,” Hawke said, “I thought maybe... fish pie?”

Pie sounded delicious, or would've if not for the word _fish._ Minrathous being a port city, fish was a staple part of the diet, even for magisters like Danarius. _Especially_ for magisters like Danarius, in fact, and because Fenris ate leftovers he had to endure it too. Minrathous fish was an oily, faintly wobbly substance that was typically left marinating in brine for a few days, just to make sure any pleasant taste was well and truly destroyed. And the smell... even thinking about it was enough to make him nauseous.

“You've gone green,” Hawke commented, amused, “Not fish, then?”

He ducked his head, embarrassed, “If Master wants-”

“Not fish,” he was waved off. “How about chicken... hm, _spicy_ chicken. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Ten minutes later found Harlan mixing the dough while Fenris carefully de-boned and diced a chicken breast. Not an easy feat with only one arm, and his progress was slow and cumbersome. But he couldn't dwell dejectedly in the presence of someone so... content. Hawke was humming as he switched from spoon to hands, kneading the soft dough between his fingers.

He caught Fenris staring, “What?” he asked airily.

“Nothing, it's just – I have never seen anyone enjoy cooking, Danarius' kitchen staff always looked harried.”

“Ah well, they weren't doing it properly. Cooking should be savoured,” Hawke told him. “It invokes sight, sound, scent, taste, _touch..._ ” he gave the dough a firm squeeze. Then glanced up, a sultry smile playing around his mouth, “I suppose I'm just a sensualist.”

Fenris stared, then realised he was staring and hastily averted his eyes. That was... that was definitely flirting. Even Fenris, who had never been flirted with in his life, could recognise that. What he didn't know was how to react. Was he supposed to flirt back? He could barely hold a normal conversation, never mind coy banter.

Hawke laughed at his confusion, though not unkindly, “You're cute when you're flustered.”

“...Yes, Master.”

“I think I heard a 'hmph' in there,” Hawke teased, but said no more on the subject. Or at least, not for a while.

They worked their way through the recipe, chatting idly – well, Harlan chatting and Fenris listening. He spoke of Ferelden cuisine, which involved throwing vaguely edible things in a pot and stewing until grey. Fenris figured that tasteless sludge was still better than Tevinter fish, but it seemed only Orlais and Antiva had really got the hang of cooking.

“There!” Hawke announced once their handiwork was put in the oven, “Now we just wash our hands.” 

Hand, in Fenris' case. He dipped it in the basin of hot, soapy water Harlan had ordered, rinsing as best he could. But it was difficult without a second scrubbing hand, and the dried spices and flour from earlier stuck to him resolutely.

“Here, let me,” Harlan said before he could protest. No sooner had the man's fingertips brushed his own when Fenris inhaled sharply, jerking away.

Hawke frowned at him, “Fenris?”

“I'm sorry, it's just – sensitive.”

“Your... hand is sensitive?” he looked no less befuddled, “Seems odd. I mean, most people use their hands a lot.”

“Yes, but-” he squirmed, feeling foolish even as he tried to explain. “The lyrium was most concentrated in my hands, which made direct contact... painful. Not anymore,” he added quickly as Harlan's expression grew concerned, “But I became accustomed to wearing gauntlets to protect them.”

“Oh, those big spiky things, I remember. But you can't have worn them all the time, right?”

He fidgeted. He had, in fact, save for when he was bathing and a few other occasions. Going without them took some getting used to; he kept trying to grab things and missing, so used to that extra reach.

This was enough of an answer for Harlan, “What... _all_ the time? So no-one's ever held your hand or read your palm, anything like that?”

“No, nev – read my palm? What's that?” He'd never heard of such a thing.

“To tell your future. It's an Antivan practice... or was it Rivaini? I can never remember.”

“How does looking at someone's hand tell you what will happen to them? That doesn't make any sense.”

Harlan smiled, “It's more for fun than anything else. My mother used to do it for me, before – well, before.”

There was a whole other story hidden in those last two words. But, curiosity being another thing slaves were punished for, Fenris didn't pry. Not that he had the chance to; before he could say anything Hawke held out a soapy hand, an invitation.

“Let's read your palm, then.”

Frankly the idea sounded ridiculous, but it was not his place to question his Master or his whims. He offered his hand, trying not to flinch when it was cradled between Hawke's own.

“I see...” Hawke began, a dramatic warble in his voice that had Fenris leaning forward in anticipation, “...Flour, spices and chickeny bits! No doubt this indicates the appearance of pie in the near future. The best pie you've ever taaassteed...” He let go to waggle his fingers theatrically, and Fenris couldn't quite suppress his snort.

“I'm not sure you've convinced me of your fortune telling skills.”

“Got you to smile though, didn't I?” Hawke pointed out proudly. And then he quietened, picking up a washcloth to gently wipe away the flour on Fenris' hand. “Seriously, though... I think I remember how it's done. This line here represents longevity,” he pointed to a long crease in the skin, studying it intently, “Looks like you'll live to be a creaky old man.”

“Is that a good thing?” Fenris asked, intrigued despite himself.

Harlan grinned, “Astute observation. I guess it depends on what the rest of your life is like.” He looked at another line, brushing it with his fingertip. The skin tingled in his wake and Fenris' fingers twitched, but he didn't pull away. “This one means finance and material goods. It's short, so you're not going to be rich, sorry,” he gave an apologetic shrug.

“That makes sense.” Slaves didn't own anything. But did that mean he would always be a slave?

Assuming that the palm reading held any degree of accuracy. Which it didn't, of course.

“And the third and final line...” he ran his fingers along it, and the tingling danced all the way up Fenris' wrist, “Love, relationships and happiness.”

He didn't answer at first, still tracing the line. Fenris cleared his throat and shifted, “What does it say?”

Harlan pulled his hands away and smiled, “That you'll be happy.”

A silly palm reading. Just a bit of fun. But still, he felt oddly cheered by the revelation. He gazed at his palm, really the first time he'd ever paid attention to it. Marred by lyrium scars, but the lines were still there.

“You _will_ be happy,” Harlan repeated, and it sounded more like a promise than anything else.

-

“So,” said Harlan. They were sat in the garden, under a shaded canopy of grapevines, “Is this the best pie you've ever tasted?”

He didn't have much to compare it to, but he suspected the food would have been delectable even to Danarius' fussy palette. “Yes Master, it is.”

“Hah, told you I could see the future,” was the reply, not without a generous dose of smugness. The smirk soon faded, however, “So, uh, now you can cross having you palm read off your first-time list... what about holding hands?”

Fenris set down his fork with a quiet _clink._ “I have never tried it.”

Hawke placed both hands on the table, facing up, “Would you like to?”

He hesitated, still wary of physical contact even after the palm reading. But he could not deny his Master anything – and, he was starting to find, he didn't want to. He cautiously offered his hand, twitching slightly as Harlan's fingers curled around him. It was not constricting or painful, but unfamiliar. The last time anyone had touched his hand was – well. When Hadriana had held him down as Danarius' gouged the lyrium from his skin. The memory triggered an involuntary twitch.

“You really haven't done this before, huh?” Harlan asked softly, but didn't let go. His thumb stroked slowly along Fenris' palm between the lyrium scars, and the tingling from earlier returned full force. “No friends, no family... and I take it, no lover?”

“Danarius did not permit me any of those things.” His eyes were firmly trained on his Master's hand, the repetitive motions that were both agitating and oddly soothing. “If there was anyone before the ritual, I no longer remember them.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, you've never been intimate with anyone?”

Intimacy and sex were rarely mutually exclusive in Tevinter, though given the line of questioning he assumed Hawke meant the latter.

“...No.” Not technically, anyway. He'd been pawed at by other magisters before, at Danarius' behest. Like a favourite toy he was paraded and passed around to fuel their envy, but snatched back if it went too far.

“Do you _want_ to be intimate with someone?”

The question caught him off-guard. He glanced up, startled, but found no cruel glee in Harlan's expression, only curiosity. Mixed in with something else he couldn't quite identify, a kind of... anticipation.

“I – I had not thought about it,” he answered, flustered by the forwardness of the question, but it was well within his Master's prerogative to ask. Perhaps Hawke wished to breed him? The thought was unpleasant, but a reality of many slave's lives. Fenris had only escaped it by virtue of Danarius' possessiveness. “If Master wishes for me to procreate-”

“No, I meant an actual relationship. Is that something you would consider?”

That perplexed him. What? Why? And most importantly, _how?_ Sex was a straight-forward affair but relationships were infinitely more complex, not least because he had no memories to draw from. He only knew in a dispassionate, common knowledge sort of way, the ways one could show affection and build a relationship. Suggestive banter, presenting gifts, shared physical contact...

His gaze dropped down to their hands, Hawke's thumb still languidly tracing his skin. He glanced up again and came to recognise the look in the man's eyes – hopefulness.

_Oh._

“You mean... with you?”

Harlan gave a sigh, withdrawing his hands from Fenris. A tactical retreat, a way out, but his words were not tentative or sheepish, “I'm aware you've barely been here a week, but I feel I should make my thoughts and intentions clear from the start. I like you, Fenris. A lot. I have ever since I first saw you in the arena, and meeting you in person hasn't diminished that.”

“I see,” he replied carefully. _An admirer,_ Bethany had said. No wonder Hawke had been so pleased to receive him. To own the warrior he had watched countless times, even if he was scarred and broken. There was this talk of rehabilitation, but ultimately... “You wish me to be a pleasure slave?”

“No!” it was exclaimed so forcefully that Fenris almost flinched back. “I'll freely admit that I'd have you in my bed. But not as a mindless concubine.”

He frowned, “I'm not sure I understand.”

“I want you,” Harlan said simply. “Not just your body – nice as it is, if you don't mind me saying – but your mind, your... heart. So that you come to me because you _want_ to, not because you feel you _have_ to.”

That still didn't make any sense. He was a slave, his only purpose was to serve and please his master, and now he was being told not to do that. Harlan had essentially ordered him not to follow orders. It was all very confusing.

Sensing his bewilderment, Harlan continued gently: “I'm not demanding anything of you. Relationships don't work like that, for a start. I'd just like to know if you're interested.”

What to say? He wasn't sure that it was a yes, but he didn't want to anger Hawke. He hastily fell back to familiar ground, “If it would please you-”

“That's not what I'm asking. Would it please _you?_ ”

“But – I-” his hand clenched and unclenched, the only outward sign of a mind in turmoil. “I don't know,” he finished in a mumble.

“Well, that's not an outright rejection. I can work with that,” and suddenly the signature grin was back, all boisterous cheer and charm. “But we are going to do this properly, you realise. I shall hereby take every opportunity to seduce you.”

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, “Seduce?”

“Enrapture, court, woo. However you want to put it,” Hawke elaborated. “I'll win you over with my cooking prowess, superior wit and penchant for nudism.”

There was no mention of the word _try_ in anything Hawke said, only statement of fact, as though he had already declared its success. That could've been taken as arrogance or determination – knowing Harlan, it was a mix of both.

-

That night, Fenris couldn't sleep. 

He was on the couch again or rather, the floor beside it. He had tentatively asked where he would be sleeping tonight, expecting the answer to be Hawke's bed, but the man had answered with _Not yet_ and left him to his usual arrangements. So here he was, tangled in blankets, unable to even doze for the innumerable questions that raced through his head.

So Hawke found him attractive. Strange, but perhaps his Master liked disfigurement; in Tevinter, where debauchery was practically mandatory, there were plenty of people with more twisted tastes. Or perhaps Hawke clung to the memory of what Fenris used to look like. He had been reasonably attractive before all this.

And Hawke desired him but for some reason didn't want to act on it, even though it was his right as a master. Danarius had never hesitated in using Fenris as he saw fit, nor had Hadriana or any of the other magisters. The only reason he had been left virginal – in its most technical definition – was because Danarius preferred it that way. So that his envious peers could salivate even more knowing the prize they coveted was still unspoilt. Certainly it had been nothing to do with what Fenris wanted or didn't want. That wasn't how slavery worked. Hawke had essentially asked for consent but he already had it; he owned Fenris' body and therefore only he could dictate what was done with it. If he wished to use it for pleasure then the answer was automatically a yes, because slaves did not say no. 

But he wanted Fenris... willing. Enthusiastic, maybe. Fenris wasn't sure if he could truly relish the thought of sex, but he could at least placate himself with rational thought. He had a good life here, especially given the fate of most disfigured, useless slaves. There had to be some price to pay for that and, all things considered, providing pleasure was a small exchange. Harlan was a kind and undemanding master, wouldn't treat him too roughly and – and it wasn't like he was physically repulsive either. Any bed slave would consider themselves fortunate to serve him. There were plenty of worse fates.

He could give Hawke his body, and his mind along with it. But Hawke had also said he wanted his heart... an odd phrase, rarely used in the Imperium. What did it even mean? He already belonged to the man entirely, he couldn't _be_ any more loyal or obedient.

He was a slave and Hawke was his master. There was no greater binding than that.


End file.
